Chapter 2

The folder sits on the table between them like a loaded gun. Alyssa doesn’t touch it. Not yet.

Mrs. Valentino watches her with the calm detachment of someone used to getting her way. Mr. Valentino steeples his fingers beneath his chin, his expression unreadable.

“There are, of course, conditions,” Mrs. Valentino says.

Of course there are.

Alyssa leans back slightly, bracing herself.

“You will be married to our son, Stephano Valentino, by the end of this week. The ceremony will be private. Legal. No press.”

Her head spins. “This week?”

Mr. Valentino doesn’t blink. “There’s no time to waste. He will agree to the terms. You don’t need to concern yourself with his opinion.”

Alyssa doesn’t know whether to be insulted or terrified by that.

“You will live with him in the Valentino estate in Eastcliff,” Mrs. Valentino continues. “Your sole purpose for the duration of the two-year contract is to produce an heir. Once that’s accomplished, your obligations will be considered fulfilled.”

“And then what?” Alyssa asks.

“You’ll be released from the contract with a full financial settlement,” Mr. Valentino says. “We’ll also set up a trust to cover your mother’s lifelong care, regardless of whether she recovers.”

Alyssa’s mouth is dry. “And if I can’t… have a child?”

Mrs. Valentino’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Stephano is twenty-seven. Young, healthy. The assumption is that the issue would not lie with him.”

The implication stings.

“We won’t force artificial means,” Mr. Valentino says, softer than before. “But if two years pass and no child is conceived, the contract ends. No penalty. However, the trust for your mother would not be renewed.”

Alyssa swallows hard. “So it’s a baby or nothing.”

“Exactly.”

The words sit like lead in her chest.

She looks down at the folder again, but still doesn’t open it. Her thoughts are racing, overlapping, tangling together. She doesn’t know what to think. Doesn’t know what’s real.

Mrs. Valentino closes her own copy of the file and folds her hands neatly. “You’re being offered a clean escape from drowning, Miss Hart. We are not asking for your love. We’re asking for your cooperation.”

“And compliance,” Alyssa mutters before she can stop herself.

A flicker of amusement passes over Mr. Valentino’s face. “You’ll find we’re not as controlling as our reputation suggests. So long as you hold up your end, your freedom within our home is your own.”

Home.

As if she’ll ever feel at home in a place like that.

“As for tonight,” Mrs. Valentino says, standing, “a car will be sent to pick you up at six. Someone will come to help with your hair, your makeup—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Alyssa interrupts.

The room goes quiet. Her words seem to echo against the glass walls.

Mrs. Valentino raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t need a stylist,” Alyssa says, more firmly this time. “If I’m going to meet your son—this man I’m apparently marrying—I’d rather he meet me, not some polished version of me your staff puts together.”

There’s a beat of silence.

It’s not defiance. It’s just… honesty. Her voice shakes a little, but she doesn’t look away.

Mr. Valentino considers her carefully. “He will judge you regardless.”

“Let him,” she says, surprising even herself.

The Valentinos exchange a look.

Something unreadable passes between them, then Mrs. Valentino gives the smallest of nods. “Very well. No stylist. But the car still comes at six.”

Alyssa nods, though every inch of her wants to run.

“And the ring?” Mrs. Valentino adds.

“I don’t need one yet,” Alyssa says. “Not until it’s official.”

The air feels thinner. The weight of the conversation finally settles in her bones.

“I don’t even know what he’s like,” she mutters.

Mr. Valentino sighs deeply. “He is a complicated man. He doesn’t want this. But he knows the cost of disobedience.”

“And what does that mean?” Alyssa asks slowly.

“It means,” Mrs. Valentino says, “you are not his prisoner. But you are not his partner either. This arrangement is not romantic, and it never will be.”

Alyssa looks down again. This time, her fingers brush the folder.

None of this feels real.

It feels like a dream she’s going to wake up from. Or a nightmare.

But then Mr. Valentino reaches into his breast pocket, pulls out a chequebook, and scribbles something quickly.

He tears off a slip of paper and slides it across the table.

Alyssa glances at it.

Her breath catches.

$3,000.

Her name is already written on it.

“This is a gesture of faith,” Mr. Valentino says. “A retainer, if you will. Consider it a taste of what we’re offering. Spend it on your mother. Or don’t. It’s yours.”

The check sits between them like bait.

She stares at it, almost afraid to touch it.

Her pride screams at her not to take it. That this makes it real. That this makes her complicit.

But pride doesn’t pay hospital bills. Pride doesn’t keep her mother alive.

With a shaking hand, she picks it up.

The paper feels heavier than it should.

She folds it in half and tucks it into her purse without saying anything.

Mrs. Valentino stands again. “We’ll be in touch.”

And just like that, the conversation is over.

No handshake. No signatures. Just expectation and silence.

Alyssa rises slowly. Her knees feel stiff, like they’ve aged twenty years in the last ten minutes.

She nods once, stiff, awkward, and turns toward the elevator.

She doesn’t look back.

The elevator doors close behind her with a hiss.

She presses the button for the lobby and stares at her reflection in the metal. Pale. Wide-eyed. A little bit hollow.

What just happened?

She watches the floors tick down.

She should be panicking. Should be falling apart. But there’s only a numb sort of quiet in her head. Like the part of her that feels things has been temporarily shut off so she can survive this.

She opens her purse and pulls the check out again.

It’s real. She runs her thumb across the ink, as if expecting it to vanish.

$3,000.

More than she’s held in her hands at once in years. Enough for another few weeks of care. Another month of hope.

She folds it again and presses it to her chest for just a moment before putting it away.

The elevator dings.

Alyssa walks out onto the marble floor of the lobby and past the receptionist, who offers her the same polite nod she gave earlier.

Outside, the city roars.

Cabs honk, people rush by, life goes on like nothing’s happened.

But something has happened.

She pulls her jacket tighter around her and starts walking with no real destination, just movement. The air is cold and sharp, biting at her cheeks. It feels good. Real. Like it’s trying to wake her up.

She checks her phone.

It’s still morning.

Eight hours until the car comes.

Eight hours until she meets the man she’s going to marry.

Eight hours until whatever this is… begins.